the pulse
by j diaz
Summary: Original characters seek safety and answers after The Pulse. Adult language and themes.
1. Prologue

On October 1, at and soon after three in the afternoon, two billion of the planet's humans went insane. Anywhere from one hundred and fifty to two hundred million of them are in the United States, a full sixty percent of the population.

It was the cell phones.


	2. I

Nick lopes out the glass-and-brick city courthouse that doubles as the city jail into the bright fall sun. It's hardly believable that in just over a month the city will be drab, brown slushy snow covering the streets and sidewalks, wind cold and brittle. Winter comes fast and without warning in the Midwest, but that isn't any of his concern. Right now, he's got cigarettes and a bacon cheeseburger on his mind, and just enough left in his checking account to cover it.

He knows of a diner down the street, a greasy spoon with brightly colored uncomfortable booths and a crabby waitress or two. Next door is a Smoke Shack or some otherwise silly-named thinly-veiled marijuana storefront. Cheap cigarettes. Chainsmoke away the rest of the afternoon. He checks his watch: 2:50. If he hurries he may make it in for the lunch special.

Coming out of the Smoke Shop (or whatever), he pauses in the shadow of the building to light up. A vaguely familiar face floats by, white codes snaking out from under dark hair. Or maybe it's the body that's familiar. Either way, as he's staring, the clock strikes three and as the iPod-listening familiar face turns towards him, eyebrows lowered quizzically, and another man barrels down the sidewalk past Nick, towards the iPod man, teeth bared in a snarl. The snarling man—looking more like an animal than a man—leaps at the iPod wearer, fingers outstretched like claws.

Without thinking, the movements pure procedural memory and adrenaline that kicks in in milliseconds, Nick grabs the charging man around the neck just as he takes his jump, hands moving quickly to the balding head and jerking in a practiced motion. At least one, maybe more, of the bones in the neck snap audibly. The man drops like so many sacks of potatoes, and the man whose white buds have dropped out of his hears to drag at his feet is on his knees, a rip in his jeans showing a scraped and bloody shin. "Holy fucking shit," he says. "What the—"

In the street, an Escalade moving at an illegal forty miles an hour slams into a parked Honda, sending glass spraying and an alarm braying. Nick can see a woman on the other side of the street stepping backwards from the wreckage and punching buttons on her cell phone. He hopes she's calling 911, because he can see the guy in the Escalade slumped over the steering wheel with blood covering his face.

"What's going on?" the man asks.

More alarms are going off, and Nick shakes his head. "I don't know," he says. "Do you have a gun?"

"A gun?! Of course I don't have a gun! Do you?!"

Before Nick can respond, a few people come running out the door of the diner. He grabs the other man by the collar and pulls him out of the way. As they watch, another SUV—they are popular in this part of the world—heads down the street and mows down the people that just exited the diner.

"Oh, shit!" Nick hears in his ear. "Oh my—shit! Shit!"

The SUV, maybe an Explorer, keeps moving, even as one of the bodies rolls off the roof and back into the street.

Nick glances in the diner's windowed storefront. The place is empty. "Inside," he says, shoving the other man into the swinging door. Behind them, there are more screams and the sound of crunching metal, breaking glass.

Nick pauses to turn the lock on the door, not that it matters with all that plate glass. "In the back. Now," he says, carefully taking inventory of the restaurant, listening for the sound of hushed breaths.

They slip through the doorway to the kitchen. Nick takes a quick walk in the small kitchen, eyes peeled for other people. "I'm Nick Calderon," he says.

"I know," the other man says. He's still shaking, but his voice has evened out of panic. "But I guess you don't remember. Ames."

Nick turns back to him, his eyes moving over Ames' face in the same way they took in the room, cold and efficient. "That's how I know you," he says. "I was drunk."

"Among other things," Ames says without a smile. "Are you a cop?"

"Hell no," Nick says. He grabs a huge knife from over one of the prep stations and Ames' eyes widen. He hands it to Ames and takes the next smaller one for himself.

"What do you think happened?" Ames asks. He peeks out the kitchen doorway and into the street past the dining room. All he can see are the two dead bodies—the man Nick killed and the person who got ran over by the SUV. From here he can't tell if it's a man or a woman with a fashionably short haircut. The Escalade's car alarm is still going off, but more alarms have joined it: cars, maybe some household Brinks, the short and sometimes long, piercing and agonizing screams of people, victims of—what?

"It caught up to us."

"Caught up to—what did? Wha—"

"Shut up. Don't ask questions. Have you ever killed someone?"

"Have you?! Besides…" Ames stares at the man in the sidewalk, his head turned perversely to the side.

"If someone comes at you, stop them. Preferably with the knife and not your face. We're going to find weapons and intel and somewhere safe to stay."

Two women slam into the glass, causing Ames to jump backwards into Nick. They are both young, maybe college-aged, and wearing those popular cut-off pants neither of the men had ever understood. At first, Ames thinks they are trying to get in, seeking safety the same as they had, but then one of the women rips a chunk of the other's hair out with a war cry. A chunk of scalp hangs from the handful of long, sunstreaked hair. The women slap and push and claw at each other, teeth bared.

"Let's go out the back," Nick said.


	3. II

The alley is relatively quiet compared to the chaos they saw at the front door. They can smell rotten food from the dumpsters and the vague, sweet smell of pot from the apartment above the Smoke Shack.

"Stay behind me, stay quiet, and don't do anything stupid," Nick hisses at Ames. He carefully lets the door close behind hem with the softest of clicks.

They head towards the less-busy street at the end of the alley. Nearing its end, Ames steps on a littered soda can with the kind of loud crunch that echoes in his head for longer than it does in actuality. Nick freezes, his eyes on the entrance to the alleyway. For several seconds, nothing happens, but just as Nick takes another step forward, a boy runs by, blood pouring out of the side of his head where an ear used to be. That boy disappears around the corner, a bloody hands-free earpiece trailing behind him, still attached to the cell phone in his pocket.

"You think this is terrorism, don't you?" Ames asks.

"It doesn't matter what I think. What I know, we need to get out of the city."

"This is Kansas! What do terrorists want with Kansas?"

"We're the terrorists, Ames. But let's save the discussion of wartime morals for later, ok?"

"Ok," Ames says, "Ok."

"We should head west. A few hundred miles into the country should do it. We can hole up in a farmhouse somewhere, maybe we'll get lucky and there will be a food source—"

"You think someone will put us up in their house?"

Nick looks pointedly at the cars spread down the street, many of them locked in a fender bender—or worse—with another vehicle or two. Almost all the cars have a door open, swaying lightly in the autumn breeze. There isn't a person in sight, but then again, Ames doesn't try too hard to see if there are bodies through the tinted glass.

Nick begins to lead Ames down the street, staying in the shadows of awnings as much as possible, senses stretched tight and thin, alert to even the smallest change in the wind. Behind him Ames is also on point, trying hard to be silent and mostly failing. His breath goes in and out in harsh gasps that a deaf person could hear from a mile away. Nick just hopes that among the now-constant sounds of breaking glass, contracting metal, and fearful and angry screams is the rat-a-tat noises of firefight. If nothing else, that kind of battle would send people inside or into the fray, leaving Nick and Ames alone on the streets.

Nick already lost his life for his country once, and he has no urge to do it again.


	4. III

They make it a few blocks without seeing anything but wrecked cars.

"We're headed into a bad part of town," Ames says.

"You think there's a good part of town now?"

As the small storefronts begin to fade into brownstones and townhomes and apartments, they see more people. The street and sidewalks are dotted with them—some unconscious, many dead, with horrific, bloody injuries.

"Jesus," Ames whispers, covering his mouth with his hand.

"There's nothing we can do for them," Nick says, grabbing Ames' wrist and pulling him along.

"Wait," Ames says. "He's still breathing."

Nick turns back to the body they just stepped over.

"He's just a kid," Ames says, his eyes wide and questioning.

"We could move him inside," Nick says. "That would be safer for him. But we can't take care of everyone out here."

Nick slides his arms under the boyman and lifts with hardly any effort. The boy's longish dark hair is matted with blood in the back.

"Hit his head," Ames says. "He's probably lucky no one attacked him. Like those women."

The door of one of the townhomes across the street is cracked, as if an occupant started to shut it and didn't quite make it all the way. "Quickly," Nick says. He sprints across the street, darting around crashed hybrids and SUVs with Ames right behind him.

The place has the distinctive silence of an empty house despite the soft music coming from somewhere upstairs. Nick lays his burden carefully on the couch to the right of the entryway, propping the head on an ugly throw pillow.

"If he has a concussion, someone should be here when he wakes up. He could be confused."

Nick begins digging through the boy's pockets. On the second try he comes out with a worn leather wallet. "He's nineteen," Nick says, "he can take care of himself."

As they stare at each other, the smallest moan comes from the couch. Ames ducks around Nick to kneel next to the couch, pushing coal hair out of the boy's eyes with a tender touch. "You're ok," Ames murmurs, "just relax."

The boy's eyes flutter a few times and then snap open. "Who are you?" he asks, a hint of panic in his voice. "Where am I?"

"I'm Ames. That's Nick that carried you in here. Nick? Can you make an ice pack?"

Nick rolls his eyes but enters the kitchen obediently. These types of apartments are all a similar predictable layout.

The boy's eyes are fluttering again as he fights to hold on to consciousness.

"What's your name, sweetie?"

"I—I don't know."

Nick hands a towel wrapped around a handful of ice to Ames, frowning.

"I don't know what my name is!"

"Shh." Ames applies the makeshift cold pack to the boy's forehead. "You fel and hit your head pretty hard. You might have a concussion. Your memory will come back."

Nick opens up the wallet again. "His name is Camden," he says. "Hey, Camden, do you know who the president is?"

"The—president?" Camden puts his hand over his eyes. His fingers are long and delicate, perfect for playing piano, Ames thinks. "It's so bright in here."

"Do you know who the president is? What year is it?"

"President of what club? Please, turn the sun off."

"Flip the lights," Ames says.

Nick doesn't move. "The president of the country. You know, the commander in chief of the United States?"

Camden shakes his head violently, sending ice cubes skittering across the wooden floors. "I don't know I don't know I don't know It's so—it's so fucking bright in here—where am I?"

Nick opens his mouth but Ames silences him with a cold look.

"You're on a couch. You should try to sleep and I'll find you some drugs so you'll hurt less, ok?"

Nick is scowling. "The city isn't safe. We need to leave. I will leave. With or without you."

As if to illustrate the point, an explosion booms to the north. The lights flicker then go out, taking the upstairs radio with them. "I don't think that was the power plant," Nick says, "but it'll blow soon enough. This is war."

"It'll be dark soon," Ames says. "You plan to travel at night by foot with nothing but a steak knife? War or not, that's not the best plan I've ever heard."

"I've done it before," Nick says. "There's no one out there, anyway."

The sound of guns going off, both the _pop pop_ of small handguns and the blasts of larger rifles, fills the air from what sounds like just outside the door.

"Don't leave me alone I'm scared I don't know who I am," Camden says.

"We'll leave first thing in the morning," Nick says, not reacting visibly to the gunfire or Camden's fear.

"I'm scared," Camden says shrilly, seeming to echo Ames' thoughts.


	5. IV

"Do you think we should start a fire before dark? Looks like there's a gas fireplace in there," Ames says.

"There's some wood chairs in the kitchen," Nick replies. "I bet that varnish shit will burn fast. I've got a lighter."

"I'll help," Ames says, taking a step towards the kitchen doorway.

"Don't," Nick says harshly. "Don't go in there."

"Why?'

"There's a body. It's not pretty."

"I saw plenty of bodies," Ames says.

"Ames. It's a kid. A little kid."

Ames shuts his eyes and takes a deep, shakey breath. "Ok. I'll, uh, rip some pages out of books for kindling."

Camden sits up woozily. "A kid? Is it mine? Is it me?"

"What? No," Ames replies, grabbing a book off the decorative shelf next to the fireplace. "Doesn't even look like anyone has read these," he says absently.

"I have," Camden says.

"You read stodgy poetry anthologies?"

"_The woods are lovely, dark and deep/But I have promises to keep/And miles to go before I sleep/and—_"

"Miles to go before I sleep," Ames finishes. "Frost said poets are like baseball pitchers. The intervals are the tough things."

"He doesn't remember his name but he knows poetry? How usefull," Nick says, coming back with a bar-height chair. He tosses it on the ground in front of the hearth and stomps on the joints between the legs and seat. The wood splinters but holds for the first kick, then begins to break apart. Ames piles the pieces in the fireplace, building up easily-burning sheets of Dickenson and Frost and Hughes underneath.

"You're pretty good at that," Nick says, throwing the last piece of the shattered chair.

"Boy scouts," Ames says. "Do you have a lighter or should we look for matches?"

"I got it," Nick says. He presents a blue Bic lighter, cupping his hand around it until the flame catches. The paper lights up immediately, sending a thin line of smoke up the chimney.

"What's my name?" Camden asks.

"Camden Wiggin," Nick says.

"Are you sure?"

"It's a pretty convincing fake if that's what it is."

Camden looks to Ames, confused. "Yes," Ames says, "we're sure."


	6. V

By nightfall, the gunfire has stopped and Camden stills in sleep. Nick finds tall dinner candles in the kitchen and he and Ames use them to explore the house, taking inventory of supplies. Sometime in early evening, a huge explosion shakes the house, knocking lamps to the floor and causing Ames to stumble into a dresser, bruising his hip badly.

"That was probably the power plant," Nick calls from across the hall. Sure enough: when Ames looks out the bedroom window all is dark except the distant orange glow of fire from the industrial part of town. The moon also glows brightly in the cloudless sky. "We're lucky it's across the river," Nick continues, standing in the doorway. "I found cheap flashlights and a short-wave radio set in the kids' room."

The contrast between his dark skin and the white of his eyes looks spooky by candlelight and Ames is taken aback for a moment, remembering ghost stories around campfires.

"She didn't have a gun, at least not that I can find," he says when he catches himself.

"She?"

Ames holds up a photo frame, the picture of a smiling blonde woman and a kid maybe nine or ten. "I might've seen her dead in the street," Ames says, "but I'm not sure. Is it bad that they all look the same to me?"

"Natural, maybe. I hardly remember the faces of people I've killed."

Ames drops the frame face-down back on the table and says in a flat voice: "Do you have cigarettes?"

"Let's go out to the porch. It's been quiet for awhile."

They head down the stairs silently and smoke in an equal, but companiable, silence for several minutes. It's dark enough that they can't see details on the street, if the body count has risen while they were inside.

"You're a musician?" Nick asks finally.

"Yeah. Well, was. We used to practice in this warehouse in the power district. All that equipment is gone now, I bet."

They both spend another long moment looking into the distant orange glow. To Ames, it looks just like what he always imagined the end of the world would look like. "You think the whole city will burn?" he asks.

"It could happen."

"Think it'll jump the river before morning?"

"There's no wind. I think we'll be ok."

A rambling shadow turns the corner down the street, and they both jump to their feet. Nick is holding the knife he'd stowed in his belt; Ames lost his sometime around the time they found Camden, and hadn't even noticed Nick was still carrying one. The shadow splits in two as another person comes around the block. "Hey!" one of the shadows shouts. "Hey, don't shoot! We're normals!"

"Normal what?" Nick asks. His voice naturally carries all the way down the street.

"Normal people! It's me and my mom! Don't shoot!"

"Ok," Nick says. "We've put away our guns. Just don't do anything crazy."

The man and woman—Ames can see the difference in size now, by the moonlight—continue slowly down the street. The mother is limping badly and a few times the man has to catch her from falling, but he offers no assistance otherwise.

"Do you mind if we take a load off?" the man asks. "We've been walking since dark. Her ankle's sprained. We were told to leave the city."

"By the police," the woman says. Her eyes are dull and weary, her wrinkles deepening by the moment.

"What did you mean, you're normal people?" Ames asks.

"Not like those crazy people with the cell phones. Not—you know, violent."

"Cell phones?" Nick says.

"Were you born yesterday, son? The cell phones did this!" the woman says, her voice rising to a shriek.

"Mom thinks it was aliens. Me, I think those towlheads finally got what they wanted, and there's not a damn thing Bush can do about it without becoming one himself. One of the crazies, I mean."

Nick and Ames share a look. "Where are they now?"

"Dead, I hope. Maybe they got sucked into the spaceships, like Ma says. They're gone."

"How could a cell phone—" Nick starts.

"Subliminal messages? Or if radiation can cause brain cancer, maybe a super dose of it could scramble up your neurons and—I don't know. Shit. I'm not a neurologist," Ames says. To the man and woman: "When did you see the police?"

"Right after dark," the man says. "I asked if they could help with my wife. She was on her cell phone. When she—when she went crazy, I locked her—in the car. She hurt herself slamming into the windows trying to get out. I asked the officer to help me, and he opened the door and he shot her. He said there was nothing we could do and he killed her. He said we could take him to court when things went back to normal and he said they were advising people to get as far outside the city as they can, as fast as we can."

Ames takes a step to the side and Nick puts a steadying hand on the small of his back.

"You'd best do the same," the woman says. "Nothing good can come of staying here."

The two stand. The man who watched his wife first go crazy and then take a bullet in the head gives a sloppy salute to the men on the porch with embers still burning at their fingertips. Without another word, mother and son continue their slow shamble out of the ruining city.


	7. VI

Nick and Ames watch the shadows move away from them for what seems like a long time, even after they both know they aren't really seeing anything at all in the darkness.

"His wife," Ames says.

"Yeah," Nick says. "If cops are killing them, though—cops know something."

"An inside job?"

"Could be, or could be like 9/11, when there was plenty of information on the Taliban and every other motherfucker out there who wants to blow us up, but too much governmental red tape to do anything about it. Either way, we should get some rest tonight if we're going to head out in the morning."

"Want me to stand watch for a few hours?"

"I think if we turn the bolt, maybe pull the couch in front of the door, we'll be ok. I sleep light."

Camden is asleep on the couch, so they move the heavy dining table in front of the locked door. Camden doesn't stir, even when one of the legs catches on an invisible splinter and squeals across the hall as it leaves a deep gouge in the floor.

"Is he ok?" Nick asks, nodding towards Camden. "He didn't even move."

Ames heads over to the couch, working to catch his breath. "Nick," he says, staring downward, "I think he's dead."


	8. VII

Camden lays on the couch flat on his back, arms at his sides, eyes wide and staring blankly at the ceiling. Nick checks for a pulse, fingers at Camden's throat lightly. "He's alive," Nick says. He waves a hand in front of Camden's eyes with no response.

"It's like—catatonic," Ames says. "Maybe he's in shock. Shit. Shit. I'm not a doctor."

"I've never seen this," Nick says, as if that will mean something. He pokes Camden sharply in the ribs, still without any response. "He's breathing."

They look at each other as if an answer will come to them if they concentrate hard enough.

"Whatever it is," Nick says at last, "there's nothing we can do about it now anymore than we can save that kid in the kitchen. I'm sleeping." He goes upstairs and returns with a pillow and throw and settles himself on the dining table. "Take one of the beds. I'll wake you up in the morning."

Before Ames can even respond, Nick is snoring lightly, blanket pulled up to his chin.


	9. VIII

Morning comes in brilliant shades of orange and pink, barely outshining the glow from the still-burning power plant district across the river. Nick wakes instantly and well-rested. Ames, on the other hand, allowed most of the night to be owned by anxieties and has only fallen asleep in the last hour, curled uncomfortably in a high-backed chair. There isn't anything left in the fireplace but a few molten pieces of chair and the smell coming from the kitchen is approaching strong and ripe.

As Nick shakes Ames awake, Camden blinks rapidly and yawns, too. Ames pushes Nick's hand away weakly, grumbling like an intolerable teenager interrupted from a classroom nap.

"When did I fall asleep?" Camden asks. His voice causes Ames to jump up, various joints cracking audibly in the still morning air.

"We thought you were dead!" Ames says.

"I was sleeping. But I had—these weird dreams. Bad ones, and some about—some about you."

"Me, too," Ames says, dropping back into the chair. "The bad dreams, I mean."

"Well, get up now," Nick says, "It's time to get a move on."

"No," Camden says.

Nick narrows his eyes at him. "Uh, yes."

"Those people, the crazy ones? The violent ones? They're awake, too."

"How do you know?" Ames reaches for Nick without realizing it, gripping his elbow tightly.

"In my head. They want me to go with them. My head—wants me to go with them. Should I? Am I like them?"

"No, you're not like them," Ames says. "You haven't hurt anyone."

"I killed that boy in there," Camden says. "That boy, he's my son, remember?"

The world seems to stop for a minute. The only noise is the ticking of a battery-powered clock hanging on a wall somewhere in the apartment, counting away the minutes in a world that will never have to be on time again, and then Nick says, "No. There aren't any pictures of you in this house."

"You're too young," Ames says.

"That's my son! That's my son and I tore his throat out! That's my son!"

Camden moves to get up but Nick seems faster than light, pinning him down to the couch with hands and a knee.

"I suggest you calm down," Nick says. "That boy's name is Alex and his mother is blonde and his father is not around and you were maybe eleven when he was born."

Ames starts to ask how Nick knows the boy's name, then remembers the quick glimpse he had into the second bedroom, where big green block letters hung above the bed. Alex was probably getting too old for that sort of thing, but maybe his mom was a widow and didn't know how to deal with a son approaching middle-school age, where girls were suddenly people of interest and a poster of Britney Spears as a bed frame was normal. It made Ames' throat close up, thinking how that boy would never sleep in that bed again.

Camden stares up at Nick towering over him, his eyes a little wet and terrified. "But I—I remember! I remember killing him!"

Nick digs in his pocket. He pulls out a bottle of pills, pops the cap, and pries open Camden's jaw. "Swallow," he says.

"What did you give him?" Ames says forcefully, starting towards Nick.

"It's just Valium," Nick says. "Do you need one?"

"I'm fine," Ames replies tersely.

"If I let you go, you won't move, right?" Nick says to Camden. When he nods, Nick lets up the pressure on his chest.

"You hurt me," Camden says pitifully, his hands pressed to the place Nick's knee just left.

"You'll be ok." Nick turns to Ames and says under his breath, "What the hell was that?"

"Look, we've moved outside the realm of my junior college education, ok? Like twelve hours ago."

Nick fingers the handle of the knife at his belt. "Do you think he's right, that they're awake?"

"It makes more sense then them all being dead, "Ames says.

Nick walks to the window, seemingly forgetting Camden, and splits the blinds to peek. "I don't see anyone."

"They're eating," Camden says, sounding a little thick, a little groggy. "I'm hungry."

"He is really becoming a pain in my ass," Nick says to Ames, "but I haven't eaten in a day or so, either. If you stay with him I'll find us food and weapons."

"What if he freaks out again?"

"You should kill me," Camden says. He is curled at the far end of the couch, his head on the armrest. "Just…stab me, that's what he thinks you should do." He smiles a little dreamily.

Nick shakes his head and opens the door slightly, glancing quickly up and down the street. "Hey," Ames says, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Be careful."

"I'll come back with cheeseburgers," Nick says.


	10. IX

It's a tense couple of hours. Ames can feel exhaustion behind his eyes, like the black and white fuzz of a television without rabbit ears, but there's no way he could sleep. He can't even sit down for longer than a minute or two, and then he's up again, pacing back and forth from the window to the stairs and back again. Camden sits quietly with his hands in his lap, staring off into space.

After about his twentieth check out the window, Ames turns to Camden. "You still don't remember anything?"

"I don't know," he says. He sighs very softly and it is as if everything goes out of him, his face smoothing into the blankness of defeat.

"You remembered poetry. Robert Frost."

"I keep seeing that boy. The way he looked when I—his mother killed him. Who am I?"

Ames sits next to Camden. "Who am I?" he says. "I'm not trying to be facetious, it's just…I know my name. I remember my childhood. But I'm not sure I know any more about what all of that means than you do."

"You make music," Camden says.

"Yeah. Not very well."

"All Nick knows how to do is kill."

Ames furrows his brow, says, "What do you mean?"

"He killed a lot of people, I think. He tries to forget. He drinks a lot. But sometimes it still comes out and he can't stop it."

"How do you know? How do you know about the boy in there?"

Camden shrugs, looking very much a boy himself. "I just know," he says, "is that bad?"

Ames' mouth is suddenly very dry and he licks his lips, tasting sweat or maybe just fear. "Do you have a cell phone, Camden?"

Camden looks confused, but before he can respond, Nick bursts through the door. He slams it behind him and turns the lock. His cheek is bruised and bleeding, but Ames can see a gun resting against his spine. "What happened?"

"We have a problem," he says, his eyes on Ames. "That—thing—has a cell. And how the fuck did he know what happened to that little boy?"

Ames looks at Camden and can suddenly see it clear as day, the rectangular object in his left front pocket. He jumps up and before he can say anything, Nick has pulled the gun and is pointing it at Camden's forehead. "Talk. Now," Nick says.

Camden seems unsurprised at this and looks past the gun pointing in his face to Nick's eyes, which are dark and cold. "You can't make me say things I don't know," Camden says.

"How did you know about Alex."

"I—" Camden looks away (Ames is amazed; he can't look at anything but the gun and it's not even pointed at him), blinking rapidly. "I—I can see in your head," he says. He looks from Nick to Ames, eyes wide with wonder. "You want to kill me and just, just have it over with. But you won't. You don't' want Ames to see that. You don't want him to be like you."

Nick steps closer, pressing the cold butt of the gun into Camden's forehead. Camden doesn't recoil the way he expects, just keeps looking at him. "Give me your phone." Camden pulls it out of his pocket and hands it to Nick, who hands it back to Ames. "Check the time on the last call."

"If the phones are doing this, do you really think it's a good idea? I mean—"

"Do it," Nick says in a voice Ames hardly recognizes, which is enough to make him flip open the phone (a cheap one, probably doesn't even have a camera). It takes him a moment to find the right combination of buttons to access the call list.

"Two fifty-seven," he says. "Call lasted two minutes and fifty-eight seconds."

"Which means he was hanging up just as this happened. Just as the phones made everyone go crazy."

"But I'm not crazy," Camden says. He tilts his head at Nick and smiles a bit. "There aren't any bullets in that gun, are there?"

"Motherfucker," Nick says, and stuffs the gun back into his pants.

"I can help you," Camden says. "Because the crazy people are out right now. I can feel them."

"You know exactly where they are?" Ames asks. "Do they know about you?"

Camden rubs the spot on his head where the gun was. "How could they? They don't think."


	11. X

There aren't any cheeseburgers, but Nick did fill a plastic sack full of sandwiches and assorted snacks from the gas station-slash-deli a few blocks over, and he and Camden eat with the ferocity of a starved dog. Ames nibbles around the edges of a turkey sandwich, his eyes careful not to meet those of his companions.

"Before I had a chance to load the gun," Nick is saying, "this lady came at me. She was a big lady. Not fat but built and real tall." He licks a glob of mayonnaise off his wrist. "She was yelling stuff that sounded like it should've been words, but it wasn't. Just gibberish. She threw a fucking—hell, I don't even know what she threw at me, but it got me right in the face." He laughs a little bit. With the blood dried down the corner of his mouth, laughter looks morbid. Perhaps even more morbid is the lightness in his voice.

"Did you kill her," Ames says flatly.

"No, it was the weirdest thing. After she hit me with whatever it was I ducked down behind one of the shelves, and she just wandered off."

"They don't think," Camden says.

"Like an infant," Ames says, "'if I can't see it, it doesn't exist.'"

"If you're not going to eat that, can I have it?" Camden asks, eyeing Ames' sandwich. Ames hands it over silently.

"Are there a lot of dead people out there?" Ames asks.

"Yes," Camden and Nick answer simultaneously.

Ames looks up at Nick, his eyes a little accusatory. "Are you ever going to tell me why it is you're so good at killing people? Why you don't even care?"

"What's the difference?" Nick says. His tone is still light, but it sounds forced.

"If this is the end of the world, maybe I don't want to spend it with someone just as nuts as all those phone crazies."

"The world's just fine," Nick says, "it's humanity that's fucked."

Camden stuffs the last fourth of the sandwich in his mouth and says, muffled, "He was in the army."

"The army?"

Nick glares at Camden. "I don't like you very much," he says.

Ames lets out a snort. "It's not like you like _me_, either."

Camden's mouth opens a bit in the gasp of good gossip, his eyes widening.

"What?" Nick says.

"I know a secret," Camden says with a grin, shoving potato chips in his mouth.

"What? Hell! I was drunk!"

Ames starts laughing, so hard he has to lean against the wall for support. "Yeah, you—are definitely straighter when you're—sober," he says, choking on air.

"Fuck you," Nick says.

Ames just laughs harder and now Camden is giggling a bit too. "I forgive you for not calling," Ames says, "since you saved my life and all."

"This is not funny," Nick says.

"If this isn't funny, what is?" Nick just scowls, looking a bit like a petulant child. "Hey," Ames says, "what did you do in the army?"

"Special Ops," Nick says, "the kind of assassination squads that don't technically exist."

Ames drops his eyes, laughter gone but his cheeks still a little flushed. "I'm sorry," he says, "but, uh, for whatever it's worth, I'm glad you're here. Not killing us."

"You wouldn't last ten minutes without me," Nick says. A grim smile plays at the corners of his lips. He reaches into his chip bag and comes out with nothing. "What the hell?" Camden averts his gaze and Nick says, "Dude, don't mess with a man's food."

"We should go now," Camden says. As if to illustrate the point, a high-pitched scream sounds in the distance. It continues for nearly a minute before cutting out abruptly. Camden can feel the woman's death in his mind, but he thinks it best to keep it to himself.


End file.
